Roasting Maxey

The phone rang. It was Action Al. What a great way to start the day.



"Say, Maxey," he greeted me with his usual childish enthusiasm, "I've got some really great news for you."



I was surprised to hear that annoying voice again, because I had an unlisted phone number. Action Al, of course, was the main reason that I had an unlisted phone number in the first place. "How the hell did you get my number?" I snapped.



"Uh…Ralph the Rattler sold it to me."



That figures, I thought. That reptile would reveal your whereabouts to Osama Bin Laden if there was anything in it for him.



"Well, it was great talking to you, Al. Sorry I don't have the time or patience for any of your lamebrained column ideas right now.

Have a nice day."



"Hold it!" he yelled frantically. "That's not why I called. I wanted to tell you that I'm organizing a roast for you."



"A roast?" I asked suspiciously. "You mean where everyone I've poked fun at in my columns gets a chance to get back at me?



No thanks."



"No, no," Al assured me. "This is to help you. You see, we've all noticed how weak your columns have been getting lately, and how you keep repeating yourself and forgetting things. Typical of Alzheimer's, you know. Since you're slipping so fast, I've rounded up a bunch of people to help you out by giving you anecdotes and ideas for your column."



Only one word stuck in my mind. "How dare you suggest that I have Alzheimer's!" I raged, then paused in confusion. "What was it you said I had?"



"Never mind, Maxey," Action Al replied gently. "The roast will be in two weeks at the Barstow Card Casino. Big Denny will send a car to pick you up."



I struggled to remember who Big Denny was. Funny, I used to be as sharp as a … as sharp as a … you know, whatever it is you're supposed to be as sharp as. Then I met Action Al one day, and after my first conversation with him, I started getting memory lapses. It was similar to the battlefield trauma that often affects military combatants, a condition that used to be called "shell shock." You know, a soldier crouches in a foxhole while being bombarded for hours on end by mortar shells. By the time the enemy runs out of ammunition and the siege lifts, he crawls out of his hole a quivering, emotional wreck, unable to even remember his own name.



Well, with Al, it's even worse. On the battlefield, at least you're able to look around for a deeper hole to hide in. There's no chance of doing that with Action Al, because he'll track you down wherever you are. And the guy never seems to run out of verbal ammo with which to bombard you.



Anyway, I marked the word "roast" on my calendar, then completely forgot about it. Two weeks later, I was startled when one of Big Denny's thugs pulled up in a car and shoved me in. When he told me where we were going, I suddenly remembered who Big Denny was and was overcome with fright. This is it, I thought. I'm being taken for a ride and I'll end up somewhere out in the desert, thanks to all those things I've written about him.



But I was relieved when we arrived at the casino. I was still in one piece, and I was greeted by a throng of sympathetic well-wishers, none of whom I recognized. Damn you, Al, I thought. If you had talked to Albert Einstein long enough, he'd have trouble adding up two plus two, much less figuring out that E=MC squared.



I was led to the podium to hear the talks, but it was nothing to write home about, much less to write a column about. First of all, there was hardly anybody in the audience, because Big Denny was charging the invited guests $50 each. However, he let the speakers in for only $25. And the talks went pretty much as I might have expected.



Phil Hellmuth was to be the first speaker. The ceremonies had to be delayed 45 minutes because, as usual, he showed up late. And all he did was whine about his bad beats, all the donkeys he had to play against, and how he'd have 20 bracelets by now if his opponents had a clue about how to play.



John Bonetti followed him and spewed a torrent of expletives, mostly against dealers. At least I think that was what he talked about. His street lingo, Brooklyn/Italian accent, and garbled syntax made him more than a little difficult to understand.



Windy Waggy had managed to talk her way into being a guest speaker. Her talk consisted mainly of two words, "I" and "me," along with the dropping of every name who supposedly knew her, from George Bush to Pee-Wee Herman.



Big Denny, as expected, lambasted me for all the satirical columns I had written about him.



Oklahoma Johnny Hale talked at great length, mostly about his book.



Ham Gristle was there, too. He didn't say anything, just took a vicious swing at me and then walked out.



My sweetie was one of the scheduled speakers, so I could expect at least one loving and supportive presentation. Unfortunately, she had found a juicy side game playing with the local Barstow farmers and never bothered to show up.



And so it went until the final speaker, who was Action Al. After an hour of idiotic column suggestions, labored attempts at "humor" and other nonsense, my head began pounding. After two hours, my mind went completely blank. Now I know how they got the name for that brain disease. It's really short for "Action Alzheimer's."



Well, by the time they finally dragged Al offstage, I couldn't remember a word that anybody had said. I had taken copious notes, but in the end it didn't make much difference, because there wasn't anything I could possibly use or make even a single column out of.



In fact, the only thing I got out of the entire affair was a $600 bill from Big Denny for limo service. Thanks anyway, Action … whatever your name is.